


talk about big love

by irisella



Series: all delighted people [1]
Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, F/F, M/M, i made them buddies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-03
Updated: 2019-05-03
Packaged: 2020-02-16 19:56:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18698134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisella/pseuds/irisella
Summary: simon snow meets catra de la horde his junior year of high school and does everything in his power to become her bud.//alternatively, the carry on/she-ra crossover that absolutely no one asked for.





	talk about big love

**Author's Note:**

> title is from the xx's "vcr" 'cause that whole song just, describes simon & catra's friendship v well for me. yes, they're best pals, sry i don't make the rules.
> 
> i moved back to new york, ordered two different copies of 'carry on' to annotate the hell out of & drunkenly binged s2 of spop. this came of it, do w it what u must.
> 
> tw: a bit of drug/substance abuse, though it's mostly only implied.

out of all the things you can’t stand about greendale academy, it’s insane party schedule ranks somewhere high up in the top three. ****  
** **

it’s not like you’re much of a loner—you’ve been a student here since freshman year, and you run track and co-manage both art and botany. you have tons of friends who you can talk to both out and in of school—or anything of that sort, it’s just, really not _your_ scene. you’re a foster kid, you’d been passed around from home to home up until your fourteenth birthday. you’ve seen enough drug and substance abuse to last you lifetimes, you don’t need to waste your weekends adding on to all of that imagery. ****  
** **

but you also have bright, healthy friends who probably haven’t ever had a bottle of gin thrown at them before. and penny and agatha, they’d persisted, nagged at you all week and, you could’ve easily said no. you’re simon snow, after all (you’ve also gotten suspended twice during the time you’ve been here for fighting) but they really are the best thing to happen to you and you just can’t deny them normal, high school fun. ****  
** **

so you said yes, big deal. ****  
** **

it’s not like it gives you crumbling anxiety like some other kids from the system, though you usually do have to leave when a fight breaks out because they’re always drinking and always _loud._ you can handle it as long as you don’t get involved in much of anything. ****  
** **

you’re standing in the middle of someone’s big yard. far enough from the pool that no one’s going to be tempted enough to drag you in and not close enough to the house itself to be called in for shots. you’ve been here for an hour, and you’ve spent half of it trying to stare down baz, who’s standing between his friends and the bar, but you can tell he’s getting tipsy because the longer you hold your gaze, the more he grins. and maybe it’d be amusing if you weren’t so sure he‘s been trying to get you expelled since the day you two met. and, penny’s somewhere inside, probably in the bathroom with agatha trying to keep her from choking on her own vomit. ****  
** **

you’re _really_ glad you don’t drink. ****  
** **

you hear someone call your name, you think, but then you look up you almost entirely forget about everything else when you spot a small girl stumble down the steps of the porch and oh, _jesus._ ****  
** **

you’re not looking for anything at the moment, not at all, and you’re about 50% sure she’s significantly younger than you, but you can’t help the surprise that hits you when you first see her because she looks to have come straight out of a _the killers_ music video. you kind of blink in your spot for a few seconds and try your hardest not to stare. penny would absolutely pinch you if she were here, but you just can’t look away. ****  
** **

she’s small, like, really small. kind of like a pixie, and her hair is long and wild and she’s wearing a really pretty, maroon dress and mud-stained combat boots. she’s holding an entire bottle of what the label reads as vodka in her hands, and that really can’t be safe for someone her size. there are what you can tell are drunken tears on her cheeks; she’s laughing. ****  
** **

you trudge your way over because you have absolutely no self control. ****  
** **

the two girls who are with her notice you coming before you reach them, and they both sort of shake their heads intensely but you’re not going to turn back because that‘d be lame, so you keep going and— ****  
** **

“hey,” you say when you reach her, “everything okay?” ****  
** **

she stares up at you for a moment, all trace of enjoyment gone. “who the fuck are you?” ****  
** **

“simon,” you answer, and then realize how stupid it sounds, “snow. simon snow. i’m uh, a junior.” ****  
** **

“ah, fuck. listen, kid,” she starts and you sort of wish you’d turned back around when you had the chance. “do i look like i’m in trouble to you?” ****  
** **

“no, but—” ****  
** **

“cool, so, i’m at a party. like, i get you’re not very good at having any sort of fun,” she says as she swings her bottle dangerously close to your shirt, “but let me enjoy my night, okay?” ****  
** **

you nod, stuck, and her friends, two seniors you recognize as scorpia and entrapta, sort of shoot you apologetic glances before dragging her back inside. ****  
** **

you stand there for a few seconds, unsure of what to do with yourself before ultimately turning back to baz, who’s draped an arm over his cousin, grey eyes bleary and smile just a little too loopy to be sober. ****  
** **

you sigh and decide to stand by your original conclusion. you _hate_ parties. ****  
** **

...

later that night, when you’re all squished together in the back of some senior’s porsche, you say, “i had the weirdest encounter with a freshman today.”  
  
penny raises a dark eyebrow at agatha and they both tilt their heads at you, seemingly forgetting that they were barely with you the whole night.  
  
“i don’t remember any freshman,” agatha shrugs, and penny just kind of kicks her knee softly before rolling her eyes, because well, agatha’s still very obviously quite pissed.  
  
“that’s not surprising,” penny says and then tilts her body towards yours, seemingly intrigued.  
  
“i never got her name because well, she sort of hates me, but she was wearing a maroon colored dress and these dirty boots and, she was hanging out with that really nice senior, scorpia—”  
  
penny grinds her teeth together before you can finish, brings up a hand to scrub at her eyes from under her glasses. “i know who you’re talking about.”  
  
“you do?”  
  
“yeah,” she says with a sullen grimace, “and no, simon. she’s a junior. she‘s been at greendale for about four months now.”  
  
agatha nods furiously, “that catra girl? i have her in math.”  
  
you’re also terrible at remembering people who aren’t your friends, or baz’s friends. or, baz.  
  
penny groans, and you think you must’ve _really_ fucked up because penny’s usually indifferent towards everyone and agatha sounds a bit scared. you don’t want to continue, but they both say, with equal exasperation, at the same exact time, “what did you do, si?”  
  
you hesitate for nearly a minute and summarize it as best as you can, making sure to highlight the fact that you _weren’t_ hitting on her. and afterwards penny leans against agatha and very seriously says, “you’ve got to apologize to her simon. or better yet, just hope she was too drunk to recognize your face."  
  
you open your mouth again, but agatha beats you to it.    
  
“catra’s a total bitch, si,” agatha slurs against the window, “she’s gotten sent to the principal four times already, for like, violence related stuff.”  
  
your eyes widen slightly because you don’t know who’d agree to fight someone that small, but penny pushes her glasses up with a single finger and says, “simon, believe me, you don’t need two people making your life hell.”

you look out the window. it’s january, the fields around you are unbearably dry.  
  
“just say you’re sorry, si,” penny says, patting your leg, “and hope she stays away.” ****  
** **

...  
  
you don’t, not really.  
  
instead you decide to forget about it. greendale is a huge facility, with lots of stairwells and long hallways that lead to big classrooms. she’s new, and you’ve somehow managed to go two semesters without seeing her, not even once, so you don’t think you’ll be running into her again.  
  
but then you’re at your school’s soccer game one friday night, and you’re sitting with agatha on the bleachers—penny usually comes with you, but she had a skype date with micah—and while you think it’s kind of weird that you enjoy coming to these games when you’re so obviously shit at soccer, you don’t dwell it for that long because baz comes out from under the stands, grinning. and, agatha’s pretty, pale face is tinted a rosy pink and yours is too and then. _tiny, killers-watching, intimidating girl_ just plops down next to you on the bleachers and you almost drop your sandwich.  
  
you snap your head her way because the metal rattles next to you, and, she’s in a _greendale dragons_ jumper, hair tousled in what you could tell was a distracted attempt at a pin up. there are holes in the knees of her jeans.  
  
agatha’s eyebrows pinch together in slight confusion, and maybe fear, but she says, “catra, hey.”  
  
catra’s eyes remain trained on the field, entirely quiet, and you both share a look before you’re taking a small, nervous bite of agatha’s donut, unsure of what to say.  
  
it’s uncomfortably eerie for a few minutes, but then catra says, “i’m sorry. if i was mean to you.”  
  
you choke on a sprinkle, “uh, sorry?”  
  
catra rolls her eyes, still not looking at you. “at the party, idiot. scorpia told me you were just trying to help, and i—”  
  
your chest unravels slightly then, because, maybe she’s not going to eat you. you wait for her to continue, and suddenly she _does_ turn to you, and in the light of the sun, you can see her irises, blue and brown. two completely different orbs of life.  
  
“—look, i’m sorry. i wasn’t expecting it and i’m an awful drunk,” she finishes quickly, and agatha raises both eyebrows at you before she lets out a shuddering breath. you fight the urge to question her right then and there, because christ, so much for this girl being dangerous.  
  
“it’s okay,” you tell her, and you do mean it, “i’m sorry if i came off as creepy, i wasn’t looking to get with you or anything.”  
  
“no, it’s okay—i—i know,” and then she falters, voice cracking in what you can tell is her natural tone—and then continues, “anyway, that’s all.”  
  
you nod. “hey, you can sit with us, if you want.”  
  
catra shakes her head, brown curls falling out of place, already standing, “no, thanks.”  
  
“wait,” you call out before she can reach the stairs, “i’m simon.”  
  
“catra,” she shouts back, pushing past a clump of sophomores, “yeah, dingbat. i remember.”  
  
...

penny sets her pen down and levels you with a look when you sit down at lunch the following day, agatha perched guiltily at her side.  
  
“what?” you ask, even though you already know.  
  
penny looks down with a big sigh, going back to jotting things down in her textbook, “it’s your funeral.” ****  
** **

... ** **  
** **

you think catra’s probably forgotten of your existence by now, she hasn’t sought after you since the game. but then you walk into the art room one friday afternoon and find her lazily curled up in one of the chairs—and you find yourself smiling at her. catra shrugs.  
  
“catra,” you say, a little out of breath. swallowing lightly when you see her twirl her her pencil around her surprisingly long fingers, nails stark red.  
  
“don’t flatter yourself,” she sneers, looking down at her boots, “i’m only here because this shithole has expensive acrylics.”  
  
you nod, because okay, that’s that, and you pull up a chair next to her and say, “alright. i guess. we meet every friday, but i’m sure you know that.”  
  
“i’m sure i do.”  
  
“great,” you say tightly, and she reminds you so much of baz for a second that you think maybe penny was right, but then catra’s lip trembles just a little, and you take in her ripped fishnets and heavy doc martens—she’s painted over them in the shape of bright, soulful magnolias—her denim skirt, the ginormous sweater she’s wearing. and the anger inside your chest deflates like a popped party balloon.  
  
you pat her shoulder a little awkwardly before you say, “sick shoes.”  
  
“thanks,” she says, and she does genuinely sound surprised, “i decorated them myself.”  
  
“yeah,” you say, laughing a little despite yourself, “i can see that.”  
  
catra snorts, and you both exist in kind silence for a moment before she begins sucking on her teeth, eyes worriedly darting between you and the door. she stares at the splatters of color on the ground when she says, “i should probably go, though. i’m super messy when i work.”  
  
“yeah, me too,” you say, standing up with a groan of discomfort—you’d been weightlifting and bench pressing last night. you’re _strong,_ it’s one of the only aspects of sports you’re good at.  
  
“come on,” you say and stick out your hand, “we can go paint together in the courtyard.”  
  
you think she’s going to go back to glaring at the floor, but it only takes catra a grand total of six seconds to crack a hesitant smile. without saying anything else, she reaches back. squeezes a little too tightly when she takes it. ****  
** **

... 

she’s hurtful. in this insane, desperate sort of way. you learn this very, very quickly.  
  
catra drinks herself sick half the time you’re out, sneaks crushed peppers into adora’s food daily, and you think entrapta and scorpia might be actual angels because they never once complain about her tendency to snap whenever something goes even slightly wrong.  
  
“oh, catra’s a sweetheart,” scorpia beams when you tell her this, “really.”  
  
you don’t agree with her at all—earlier this week you’d told catra it was probably not the best idea for her to keep a pack of cigarettes in her school bag and she’d responded by slamming her locker door so loudly, a girl a few lockers over mistook it for a gunshot—but when catra shows up a few minutes later, looping her arm through scorpia’s with a tiny, tiny smile, you don’t actually find yourself doubting it.

...  ** **  
** **

catra carries packets of kleenex around everywhere she goes. sometimes the white around her eyes spins webs of red. she’s constantly and heavily freezing under the weight of her absurdly large jumpers. you try to give your jacket on multiple occasions but all it does is make her cry. ****  
** **

she also never shuts up about a girl named _adora._ adora this, adora that, and you think that this is what it must feel to be penny. you let her ramble.  
  
“why don’t you just forgive her?” you ask when she’s done, because it doesn’t seem like catra actually _hates_ her—she always appears to despise most things she’s actually really fond of—and she still hasn’t told you explicitly why it is she’s so resentful.    
  
“she abandoned me,” catra says simply, and, it’s the most sorrowful thing you’ve ever heard, “she left me behind.”  
  
and really, what can you say to that? ****  
** **

... 

you spend most of your saturday nights on the roof of your house with your friends, you’re not really used to being allowed to bring people over. you’re not used to having nice things like your father has either (even though having a house is wonderful, it’s the most dreary one out of all the ones you’ve lived in), although you still don’t really feel like anything davy owns is yours. but it’s not as bad as living in your car, or camping out in park benches for days on end.  ****  
** **

agatha turns next to you, brown eyes clouded with some type of dream, “do you think baz likes me? you know, like _that?”_ ****  
** **

there are no stars out tonight, the atmosphere around you thick with hazy condensation. you’re able to see for miles and miles, space expanding around you endlessly. you look at the moon for a second, breath catching. it’s unreachable. agatha’s lovely, and you’d dated for half of your freshman year but you know you really don’t ever want to kiss her again.  ****  
** **

“i doubt baz likes much of anything,” you reply, because your heart is pulsing against your ribcage and you can’t even begin to comprehend _why_ .  ****  
** **

...

catra’s properly blazed when she quietly reveals to you, “i’m in the system.”  
  
you kind of are too, though not to that extent, and you tell her, “i was adopted the day i turned fourteen. by my real father.”  
  
you don’t want to give her hope, but catra’s not a particularly hopeful human being, and you‘ve already expressed to her multiple times that davy’s a giant _ass,_ but she only shrugs and takes a long drag of her joint. no real life to it.  
  
“damn,” she says, coughing a little when she exhales, “that must suck.”  
  
you wake up the next morning in a stranger’s house to catra squirting drops in her eyes, hands terribly unsteady. there’s a pyramid of white dust on the top of the dresser. she doesn’t say anything about your previous conversation, and you think she wasn’t entirely lucid when she’d told you. she’s not entirely lucid now.  ****  
** **

you’ve never had to pretend to forget anything before now.

...

“i don’t know what to do with her,” you say. penny, who’s sitting criss-cross applesauce in front of you, knees open wide, continues looking bored.  ****  
** **

“simon,” she says, condescending, “just stop thinking about it.” ****  
** **

you grip at the edge of the table and call catra over then, and she wobbles over from where she’d been sitting, blissfully unaware and evidently high.  ****  
** **

penny’s about as smart as they come. she’s always managed to pull you out of every dumb situation you’ve ever gotten yourself into. and, you know your best friend’s heart, and you know it’s made of pure gold. catra knocks over a glass of water in a state of feral delirium, eyes wild and unfocused, and she _still_ doesn’t say anything.  ****  
** **

...

you bump into baz in the hallway a few days later—literally, smack right into him as you’re turning a corner—and, he’s walking next to this pretty girl who looks a little bit like agatha. you’ve seen her before, you’re sure. blonde, pin straight hair, thick brown eyebrows. big, big eyes—dark blue.  
  
baz doesn’t really talk to girls, and you immediately feel a little sick because you realize that for some _unholy_ reason, he’s talking to this one.  
  
“watch it, snow,” he says calmly, and you fist your hands at your sides and try your hardest not to shout at either one of them but it becomes just that much harder when you look down and notice she’s wearing a _greendale soccer_ shirt, and you recognize her from pictures and great, of course. he _would_ be dating the captain of the girl’s varsity team.      
  
“right,” you bite, “my mistake.”  
  
baz cocks an eyebrow and the girl looks a bit confused, but you don’t really give either of them time to say anything. you push past baz _hard_ and make your way to class. ****  
** **

...

“i don’t know why i care,” you tell catra later that same day, watch as she leans into her harley, caramel skin glistening under the soft, mid-may sun. you’ve spent the last half hour telling her about the two seconds you’d spent with this girl and she’s letting you talk, which is weird. because catra’s, kind of very, opinionated on most baz-related things.  
  
“catra?” you ask, a little worried.  
  
she’s awfully quiet for a few minutes, brows furrowed tightly before she pipes up with, “i promise you, simon, they’re not dating.”  
  
you kick away pebbles with the tips of your converse, “yeah, i’m pretty sure they are. baz doesn’t hang out with girls.”  
  
“yeah,” catra retorts, “and he’s captain of the soccer team and so is she. they have joint practice every other friday.”  
  
you want to ask what that has do with anything, but then you sort of think, _blonde hair. soccer. blonde hair. soccer. built like an olympian. oh. oh shit. adora._  
  
you stammer out incoherent nonsense until catra’s shrugging and sagging against the seat, “wow, you really do have shit memory. my guy, adora’s been at this school for like, an entire year.”  
  
your mouth hangs a bit open. you don’t know what to say.  
  
“that’s kind of what happens when you like someone,” she says, pausing briefly to stretch and smile at you, “and, don’t worry, simon. adora’s doesn’t really hang out with boys either.”  ****  
** **

...

tuesday morning, catra bursts into the cafeteria a sobbing, spluttering mess. both penny and agatha back away from you because she looks so, so angry. you set down your orange juice.  
  
“catra,” you say, taking her into your arms when she slides down next to you, “what’s wrong?”  
  
“adora and i got into a huge fight,” she snivels, pounding her fists into your chest, “and my nose won’t stop _fucking_ bleeding.” she heaves a ragged inhale, collecting herself, seemingly remembering that she’s in a cafeteria full of nosy kids.  
  
“i punched adora,” she whispers, like she’s proud of a horrible secret. you’re not shocked at all. agatha gnaws on her lip next to you and penny sets her book down very, very tiredly.  
  
“did she hit you back?” you ask, because now your shirt is stained red and her nose, though not at all bruised or marred, is dripping all over the seat.  
  
“no,” she says, tears ceasing just as quick as they started. “she’s never been capable.”  
  
you smile, a little worriedly, and penny hands you some napkins that catra reluctantly lets you hold to her face. you don’t really wonder why you need to in the first place.  
  
“you okay?” agatha asks, leaning back to place a delicate hand on her back. catra tenses immensely but she nods, stiffly.  
  
catra wipes at her drying eyes with the back of her hand, and you squeeze her arm as gently as you possibly can.  
  
she’s still sniffling a little bit. you can see the heavy, unbearable weight that takes solace in the harsh jut of her shoulders. but catra somehow finds a way to shrug it off when she says, “but i’m sure her eye isn’t.” ****  
** **

...

you’re in the nurse’s office, keeping ebb company during her lunch hours, and she’s in the middle of revealing to you that her favorite thing about practicing medicine are the ways she’s learn to heal people’s wounds—you took AP bio last year because you used to think maybe you’d have liked being a doctor—and you’d nodded along because really, she isn’t wrong. it‘s quite interesting.    
  
“cauterization,” ebb tells you over a mouthful of pasta, “is a technique in which you burn the skin first in order to be able to close it.”  
  
you grimace and throw a cookie at her, and just as badass as your doctor dreams sounded, you’re reminded of why they’d been shut down in the first place because _what the fuck_ .  
  
ebb smiles this radiant thing, and says, “you know, simon. people apply that technique in real life all the time,” and just like she’s talking about the weather, she adds, “hurt themselves to keep themselves safe.”  
  
you’re quiet for a while, and you’ve been friends with catra for a few months now, and ebb’s treated to her injuries numerous times, so you ask, “like catra?”  
  
ebb ponders this seriously, sets down her fork without much show, “like catra.” ****  
** **

...

you wonder about it for weeks, how he’d fit so nicely against your body, and suddenly it’s all you can think about.  you go to penny first, and she just sort of shrugs and smiles fondly all at once and you don’t think you’ve ever seen her so amused. you figure that she’ll maybe be a little angry, but she only pats your hand with her own when you clear your throat, the chunky ring she always has on warm against your palm.  
  
“i think i like baz,” you blurt out, and it sounds so jumbled coming out of your mouth that penny just laughs.  
  
“oh god, simon,” she says, and you grin at her because of course, penny’s in _love_ , you think she’ll understand. and you’re right, because she huffs, “i could’ve told you that years ago.”  
  
you tell agatha second—on the porch of her house, by the steps—because she’s probably liked him for longer than you have, honestly. and you know she’ll probably, maybe not be as thrilled, but you don’t think she’ll hate you. not for a prolonged amount of time, at least.  
  
“that makes sense,” she says, smiling. albeit sadly, and you hand her the little box of donuts you’d gotten on your way here because they’re agatha’s favorite thing in the whole wide world and your hands are _shaking._  
  
“you didn’t have to bring me food, simon,” agatha tells you, laughing, but she takes a big bite anyway.

... 

when you kiss him for the first time, you forget your own name.  
  
baz is soft, surprisingly gentle for someone who’d just about lost it with laughter when you fell down the stairs your freshman year. and you don’t want to think about that right now.  
  
but he’s a total wonder when he reminds you gently, a whisper, “simon.”  
  
“yeah,” you whisper back, touch his forehead with yours, dizzy with the smell of his cologne, “yeah, i know.” ****  
** **

... 

this time, soccer practice feels different.  
  
for one, penny and agatha aren’t next to you, you’d asked catra—she’d shrugged and rolled her eyes, but you’d read past that and into the initial moment of interest—to come instead. and two, it’s friday. you’re missing history for this, but you really don’t mind, it’s one of the only classes in which you’ve been able to maintain a ninety point average, she’s missing AP spanish.  
  
you decide you understand catra’s ache a little better now. you can make out adora’s strong back from here, just how fast she really is compared to the other players. you don’t know much about astronomy, you never really looked into mythology, and, your memory’s hard drive or whatever, that’s proven to be nonexistent—but you remember sun. you remember god of the _sun._ you remember icarus. you remember melting wax, scorched feathers.  
  
catra flinches every time adora chases the ball even the slightest bit close to where you’re sitting, looking away like the sight of her burns—baz grins at something niall says, honey skin luminescing, you itch—and this, this kind of pain is too, something you’ve known too long as your own.

...

adora steps in front of you in the hallway, cuts you off right as you’re about to go into Pre-Calc. you stand there, blinking down at her because you have no idea if it was an accident or not, and you can’t afford to be late to a class you’re so close to flunking.  
  
but then adora’s entire facade crumbles before you, and she begs, “tell catra,” her voice kinder than what you’d been imagining it to be, “that it wasn’t like that.”  
  
you hoist your bag up, a little annoyed and just as confused when you say, “what?”  
  
adora looks dangerously close to crying, and you really can’t handle that today, so you shake your head and almost say you take it back, but you’re going to be on catra’s side _forever_ now. she’s without question, one of your greatest friends. so you don’t.  
  
“yeah, okay,” you say instead, even though you don’t actually know what she’s talking about, “sure.”  
  
adora nods seriously and looks so sad, that you really do want to believe her.  
  
“thank you,” she says after some time, shifting her weight from foot to foot, “really.”  
  
you offer her a half-hearted smile—because she’s gentler than catra ever could be, and you don’t have to know her to _know_ this. she’s—or someone else, because they’re beautifully done and from what catra’s told you, adora isn’t the most graceful person—stitched baccara roses into the sleeves of her letterman jacket. adora smiles back, shyly, her eyes bright.  
  
“i’ll see you around,” adora says like it’s a promise, “simon.”  
  
you waver a bit longer when she’s gone. she’d known your name.  
  
...  
  
“adora wanted me to tell you that it wasn’t like that,” you tell catra a few days later. holding your breath, you run the pads of your thumbs over the bristles.  
  
she‘s unmoving next to you, and you expect her to tease you like she always does when you say something she doesn’t understand—because that’s not even slightly specific and catra needs context added to absolutely everything—but her eyes fill with big tears and her entire body _shudders._  
  
you reach for her instantly, but she puts a trembling hand on your arm and says, “ _don’t._ ” so harshly that all you can really do is nod and try to understand.  
  
catra doesn’t say anything else, and you don’t say anything else. today you’re outside experimenting with a new set of oils, and the sun is incredibly bright. from your space next to you, you can see that catra is very much not interested in battle. she has absolutely no real purpose.  
  
she paints white and gold chrysanthemums on a black canvas. when they’re finished drying she paints them red. ****  
** **

... 

you’re at baz’s place one afternoon—you almost jumped out of your skin when his aunt let you in—carelessly sprawled out on the big, velvet couch in his room. your hands stained grey with lead.  
  
it’s the first time you’ve allowed yourself to sketch him, and you’re overcome with relief. it used to give you horrible mental blocks, so much so that you actually stopped illustrating people completely. but now he’s sleeping, tucked into himself, surrounded by methodically scribbled notes. the light of day coming in through the window to frame a luminous ring around his face.  
  
you’re sure you’ve seen this type of beauty before, somewhere in a scene of a historical movie ebb put on once in her office. or maybe you read about it in the bible. you can’t quite place it.  
  
all you know is, baz’s chest dips with a small sigh, and you don’t think he’d be thrilled about it, but you‘ll only be able to paint him in color from now on.  
  
all you know is, baz and the warmth of spring, the weight of your notebook against your legs. those are all things you love, things that make you want to fight to stay alive.  
  
you close your eyes. the revelation doesn’t hurt, and despite the fact that you cannot see yourself, you let yourself smile. ****  
** **

... 

you tell catra exactly that over the phone, and you can just about see her rolling her pretty eyes when she says, “just tell him, simon.” ****  
** **

... 

you do, and then you kiss baz for the _nth_ time as he’s crying—mainly because he’s _crying_ but also because you’re sure he’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen, even like this—and he kisses you back, lips quirking upwards.  
  
some hours later, when you’re both wrapped up together in his room and you’re leaning over him in his bed, you tell him, “i’ve been looking for a way to make you smile for so long.”  
  
“what a waste,” he murmurs against your neck, fingers gripping your waist. but it’s innocent; he’s laughing as he says, “i love you too.” ****  
** **

...

you hold baz’s hand when you walk down the hallway together the next day, and you get a few whistles—from dev and niall, mostly—but baz’s jaw clenches tightly and he snarls at just about anyone who stares for longer than a _millisecond._  
  
catra grins at you from her locker, sharp teeth and all.  
  
you lean into him and smile a bit into his shoulder, because baz has always been cold-blooded and distant but right now he has his hand in yours and it’s really, really warm. ****  
** **

... 

when catra’s name shows up third on the honor board, you’re not surprised.  ****  
** **

(penny’s dedicated, sure, and so is baz, but not quite like this. catra’s always had to put in twice the effort, her brain isn’t exactly wired for academia. still, _she’s_ the most dedicated person you know.)

catra herself is though, and you watch as she celebrates with a big bottle of rosé. she takes a big swig and then hands it to you, and her movements are all too wobbly but her eyes are newly hopeful, and that’s more than you expected her to show. tonight, you give in. 

...

you don’t know what to expect when baz comes into the room, because you’re with catra and you’re both covered in paint. but baz comes to stand between the both of you and just looks at her before breaking out into a shit-eating smirk. you idly brush your pinky against his and he turns to you, eyes sparkling, “so this is the one that adora’s always going on and on about. catrina, isn’t it?” ****  
** **

_catrina,_ you muse, and you swear catra blushes when she grumbles, “i don’t know what you’re talking about.” ****  
** **

he chuckles, holds out a firm hand. “i’m tyrannus basilton grimm-pitch.” ****  
** **

catra‘s mouth opens and closes. ****  
** **

baz shakes his head with feigned exasperation, and you nearly let out a laugh when he says “you may address me as baz.” ****  
** **

her eyebrows instantly lift, and you think she’s about to say something mean. catra doesn’t take well to new people and she’s never really liked any of adora’s friends. and, her eyebrows are pinching together the way they always do when she’s thinking up something vindictive, but she seems to think better of it when you slip your hand into his because she just shrugs. ****  
** **

“cool, i guess. you may _only_ address me as catra, just so we’re clear.” ****  
** **

baz‘s smirk transcends into that of a lopsided smile, “as you wish,” before he adds, “catra." ****  
** **

...

catra laughs all the way to the courtyard, and you’re really glad you picked right now to do this because she’s not said anything even remotely hostile at all today. and, she’s wearing a long, white dress that reaches to about an inch off her combat boots. there’s a braid in her hair, which you’d interwoven with chamomiles. today her laughter is wild and careless and contagious.  
  
you sit down under a big tree and pat the spot on the grass next to you, and catra rolls her eyes with a suspicious smile but falls back against your legs without putting up much of a fight.  
  
“hey,” you say, and it comes out much more serious than you wanted it to, “i love you,” and then to tease, you include, _“kid.”_  
  
catra flushes red, groaning as she smacks your arm, but she says it back just as seriously, “love you too, you big moron.”  
  
you grin, and neither one of you really say anything until you feel someone press a familiar kiss to your cheek. and your heart stutters like it always does, but this time for an entirely different reason—while baz comes to sits down next to you, adora lingers by his side, standing statue still in joggers and a t-shirt.  
  
catra scrambles up _fast,_ nearly hitting her head on your chin. you watch, on edge, as they stare at each other. adora scratching the back of her neck, catra swallowing dry air.  
  
baz is fighting a smile, and you really, really hope that he can hold it off for now because neither one of them look all that pleased, but adora clears her throat and squares her shoulders, her blue eyes fiercely determined.  
  
“would it be cool if i sat down?” she asks. there’s a few dandelions tucked into her ponytail—adora herself carries it like she’s never known spring—they must’ve been gifts.  
  
catra looks down and nods so faintly you’re sure baz misses it, but you see it. you really do _see_ it. and when adora chooses to sit closer to catra than to you, you see that too.  
  
you take baz’s hand with a knowing smile and squeeze, and catra crawls away and back into your lap, eyes blown wide with uncertainty.  
  
“i knew baz was the one,” you say to them when they’ve settled, tilting your head in baz’s way with a waggle of your eyebrows, “when he tossed me his favorite handkerchief after making me cry.”  
  
catra makes a face and pushes herself off you once more, relaxing against you, and you poke her belly and lean in towards your boyfriend. he meets you halfway.  
  
catra and adora laugh at the same time when you break apart—ears and chest warm—an entirely new sound.

...

you’re walking baz to AP physics, and you’ve just started telling him that you’re seriously considering buying a harley davidson when he puts a steady, collected hand on your chest. you look at him, thinking he’s going to kiss you (he always does when he disagrees with you) but he’s looking over your shoulder, grey eyes unusually curious.  
  
you turn all at once and _oh._  
  
you can see catra’s locker—decorated with pictures of scorpia and entrapta, some of yourself—and catra, leaning against the the paint, wild hair and combat boots and everything. and, _adora,_ blonde and messy and just a little uncoordinated, a few feet away from her, clutching a bouquet; an organized collection of yellows and reds and whites—carnations and dahlias and tulips—you can imagine it means bandaids, lips being held against lacerations instead of sweltering metal.  
  
a shy, tentative smile blossoms on catra’s face as she nods, taking them into her arms carefully. this time you _know_ she’s blushing.  
  
adora holds out a hand just as you slip your own into baz’s, smile wide. he interlaces your fingers, gaze soft as catra accepts that too. they retreat towards the exit doors together, suddenly and unexpectedly younger than seventeen. and you think of gardens. of rain and sun and shade. you understand _growth._ the essence of time, time, time.  
  
baz laughs next to you, looking so wonderfully at peace and you know that he too, has loved ghosts. has fallen victim to the drought. but right now, he is the most alive thing you know; dead things stay unmoving, there‘s so much room for him to grow.  
  
you’re sure catra will call you later, and you’re sure she’ll cry. for her heart and for adora’s, you really do hope they learn to begin again, but you’re not all that worried—you remember what catra had whispered to you as she’d outlined sunflowers, like there was no truer thing in the world: _“i believe in reconstruction.”_  
  
second chances, too. paint over the cracks between the walls, cement the color of the sky. fill the gaps with magic. build a new house.  
  
right now, catra’s planting seeds in the front yard.  
  
to you, it seems like a perfect place to start. **  
**

**Author's Note:**

> they're the loves of my nine lives
> 
> find me on tumblr @ irisella if u'd like. we can discuss


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